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by Gaow
Summary: Sherlock was sitting alone in his flat. John was drunk. That didn't stop the two of them from continuing their daily routine. ((I don't own Sherlock or its characters!))


Sherlock didn't look down at his trouser pocket as his phone vibrated softly. It was something he had grown used to, and out of habit, he picked the small cellular device and looked at the message.

It was from John.

_Sherlock. –JW._

Sherlock felt his fingers tighten around the device. His…friend…had started texting him ever since he had 'died.' He was sure it was because John believed he was still alive and wandering around in the shadows. How right he was – not that he knew. Sherlock made sure he didn't know. He had even blackmailed Mycroft to ensure his secret, and his elder brother had assured him he wouldn't speak of the younger man's whereabouts.

He pressed the home button with his thumb, prepared to place it back into his pocket. He usually only received one text message a day, so when his phone vibrated in his hand for a second time, he was taken by surprise. He fumbled with the device, settling down in his chair in the dim apartment he had purchased months after his alleged death, stretching out like a cat as he looked at the new message in surprise.

_You took more than your own life during that day you jumped off St. Bart's. –JW_

Doctor John H. Watson was drunk.

Actually, he was slightly buzzed – just enough to make it hard for him to see the screen, but not enough to make it impossible.

He fumbled with the small buttons on the phone as he began to type his third message. It took him three tries to get it right, and he took another sip of beer as he pressed the _send _button.

_You took my heart with you too. –JW_

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, the words seared into his brain. No matter how hard he tried, it didn't leave him. Nor did the image of John's grief written face. The one he had seen when the former army doctor had stared at his gravesite.

Rubbing his long fingers over his tired eyes, he let them run through his unruly hair as he stared back down at the phone.

_You took my heart too…_

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath as his heart gave a tug. His shaky fingers brushed against the buttons of his phone, and he bit his bottom lip in frustration as he pushed the overwhelming urge to reply to the heart wrenching messages. It was unusual for him to act this way, but this was John.

And John had been, and was, better than any drug he had ever had. he had found his way under his skin, and it made his blood boil, and his heart beat rapidly, and most importantly, he was the only thing that made Sherlock's mind stop _thinking. _Not that he would ever admit to any of this, because John was John, and Sherlock was Sherlock, and they had both known that Sherlock would never willingly admit to anything. Both in and life and death.

So instead of responding to the man, he waited for the next message.

_Give it back Sherlock. –JW_

John's world was slowly spiraling around him, and he let out a small groan as he rested his head on his shoulder. He sat in his chair, slumped into it. His eyes were beginning to water as he felt a sense of relief wash over him.

It had been nearly a year – dear God, had it already been so long? – since Sherlock's disappearance, which John refused to even accept as the sociopath's death. The army Doctor had refused to let his pent up stress out, no matter how many times Lestrade would take him out to a grimy bar and force him to watch rugby games, no matter how many times Molly and Mrs. Hudson came over to console him for his loss. He would just keep it locked inside his head and his heart and he would walk around like a zombie – a dead person.

The only things that were keeping him alive were the lingering scent of Sherlock bloody Holmes, and the little remains of his existence. Like the violin that sat in a corner of the room, which Sherlock used to play at ungodly hours in the night. Or the severed toes that still sat in the fridge next to the cheese. It had been his last experiment, and John just didn't have the heart to throw any of it out, or any of his experiments and 'toys'. He had tried once, but in the end he had fished them out from the garbage and had placed them back where they belonged.

So as he continued through his life, and realized that he could indeed still send messages to the missing Sherlock Holmes, he felt slightly better. But at times, when he would stare at the mobile device and realize that he would probably never receive a response, he would fall into a pit of misery, before he would lock himself inside Sherlock's room to take in the remains of his smoky scent. And that was enough to give him his determination to text Sherlock back.

_Or better yet, give me yours in return. – JW_

Sherlock's teeth sunk into his bottom lip and he let out a hiss of pain, tongue darting out to lick the small dribble of blood slipping out of the corner of his mouth.

"You already have it, John," he whispered, bringing his knees up to his chest, sitting in the odd way he would sit when he was back at 221B Baker Street, in _his _chair. How he missed that chair. It was hard to think in the one he had now. It was stiffer than his old one, and it was an ugly shade of yellow that looked more like vomit than 'sunflower yellow,' as the shop keeper had called it.

His heart gave another squeeze as he received another message.

_Please… -JW_

God, now John sounded like a desperate housewife from one of those crap telly shows hosted by Americans that often played re-runs late in the night. He snorted aloud, part of him shaking his head at his tactics, and the other half telling him to not give a shit about it. He was drunk, and he was grief stricken, and that was enough of a reason to act like a desperate housewife.

His was getting tired now – the alcohol doing a wonderful job of helping him through a rough night and day.

He had had an incredibly rough day.

First, he had gone to the morgue to visit Molly. He didn't do it often. Too many painful memories, but he had to pick Molly up and take her to a party the two of them had been invited to by Sally and Lestrade.

Second, he had noticed the empty seat in the room. None of them said anything, but they all left it open. He knew it was for Sherlock.

And thirdly, he was told that he needed to let go. It was of everyone had stopped mourning Sherlock's death.

That had sent him storming out of Scotland Yard and straight to a pub.

_Happy Christmas Sherlock. –JW_

Sherlock glanced at the words, a small, tight lipped smile on his face.

"Happy Christmas too John." He shut his phone off, placing it back in his pocket. Resting his chin on his hands he closed his eyes. "And I'm sorry I can't be there with you."

_I hope you come home soon. –JW_

John closed his phone with one hand, tossing it onto the couch in the living room. It landed with a small thud, and he blinked away tears. He leaned his head back in preparation to sleep, closing his eyes tightly.

As he drifted off, Doctor John H. Watson pulled Sherlock's jacket closer to him and whispered those words he wished he had told him before that day at St. Bart's Hospital.

"I love you Sherlock."

And in that moment John swore he could hear Sherlock whisper in his ear.

"_I love you too John."_


End file.
